This will be, for me, the most difficult post I have ever written over the course of four blogs and over ten years of writing. But it is something that I have been silent about for far too long. Here is my story…
In the 8th grade, a new student came to our school. Given that our town had a military base, there were often new kids who would come during the school year. Sometimes they stayed for years, other times for months. If my memory serves me correctly, she was only there for a year.
This girl was a bit different than most others. She was from the South, with an accent to prove it. She had a funny name, which I believe came from the Bible. And, she was black, in a school that may have had three or four other children of color.
She was in my history class and sat toward the end of the column of seats in which I was at the front. (At the time, that was not a remarkable observation to me.) I was a bit of a smart-ass and often would do and say things that I thought others would find funny. And what I decided would be funny would be to make my lips look larger, using my tongue and turning down my lower lip. I would do this when I would pass back papers, making sure that she saw me.
I don’t think she reacted the first few times, maybe in hope that I would get bored and move on to something else. But, when I made that face, others saw it and laughed. So I kept doing it. Eventually, she told our teacher. And she would say it out loud, with her Southern accent, which I would then mock.
I know that I was admonished by my teacher. I may have even been threatened with a consequence, but I do not remember it ever being pointed out to me that I was being racist.
I certainly didn’t think I was a racist. I had black and mixed race friends. Most of my favorite athletes were black. I would have been puzzled if you had told me back then that I was a racist. And, maybe I wasn’t. But my actions were those of a racist, whether I knew it or not.
I cannot imagine how it must have felt for her, not to feel accepted in her new school. She was a thirteen year old kid, who had moved hundreds of miles away from her previous classmates, friends and community and I not only made her feel unwelcome, but I made fun of her because of her race.
I don’t know where she moved to next, or how she’s fared in life. I know that I did not make her life any easier. I had made her dread history class on a daily basis. I made her hope not to pass me in the hallways because maybe I would tease her there, too.
I wish I had been a better person then. I wish I had been as smart as I thought I was and knew better than to tease someone about her race. I hope that my racism did not lead her to believe that all white people are racists. More than anything, though, I hope that she’s had a good life surrounded by good people who accept her for who she is. That’s what we all deserve, regardless of our age or race or gender. And I did not give that respect to her all those years ago.
For that, I will always feel shame.
Suburban Buddhism 